


New Year 1980: Snapshots

by glinda4thegood



Series: Victoria Winslow/Ivan Simanov Series [6]
Category: RED (2010)
Genre: Assassins, Crossover, F/M, Romance, Spies, Spies & Secret Agents
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-29
Updated: 2012-10-29
Packaged: 2017-11-17 07:33:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,006
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/549127
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glinda4thegood/pseuds/glinda4thegood
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In some parts of the world the convention of making decisions to change one's life on New Year's Eve was much in vogue. Paris 1979-1980: One spy gets back into the field; one spy thinks about leaving the field. </p><p>Snapshot: Back in the field full time after recuperating from the shooting, and paying his dues at Moscow Centre, Ivan finds himself in Paris on the cusp between 1979 and 1980. </p><p>Snapshot: A honey trap mission nearly goes awry for Victoria Winslow on New Year's Eve 1979-1980. In the aftermath she shares her thoughts about field work with fellow agent Jackson Lamb.</p>
            </blockquote>





	New Year 1980: Snapshots

**Author's Note:**

> _Some people are agents from birth . . . appointed to the work by the period of history, the place, and their own natural dispositions._  
>  The Honourable Schoolboy: A George Smiley Novel by John Le Carre

**SNAPSHOT – PARIS, DEC. 31, 1979**

"A new decade begins this night! You should drop by. It will be a good party. Many lovely . . . " Adrien Bisset made an extravagant hand gesture that looked like half a figure eight, and implied womanly curves.

Ivan Simanov smiled and nodded. "Merci. Perhaps."

Bisset's casual invitation was for a less-rather-than-more private celebration, proffered by a man who considered himself to be an entrepreneur rather than a criminal. This attitude did not bother Ivan. Unless they were psychotic and unreliable, he rarely made judgments about individuals working in the illegal arms trade. Bisset was neither of those things; he exuded a very French joie de vivre, and the sense that if he was forced to kill a customer or business partner, it might cause him actual pain and some loss of sleep.

Ivan left the opulent private office, and passed Bisset's double body guard without acknowledging their presence. He made his way back to his hotel room through deepening winter twilight and throngs of early celebrants rushing along Paris streets.

His hotel was on Moscow Centre's "approved expenditure" list. Since arriving in Paris, Ivan had tried to spend as little time as possible in the small, slightly overheated room. Shedding his overcoat and suit coat, he began to methodically pack his luggage. His mission was complete: currency had changed hands, weapons had begun the trek to several points of want, or need. A new mission directive had arrived with that morning's breakfast in a small, crowded cafe. Not back to Afghanistan, to Ivan's relief, but back to Centre.

Although after a day of thinking it over, Ivan wondered if his relief was premature. Moscow Centre and Uncle Vladimir were one and the same these days. And some of General Simanov's projects were fully as messy and unrelentingly dangerous as Afghanistan.

_It will be a good party._

Evening wear hung in a garment bag in the wardrobe. Ivan had worn the suit frequently on this trip. Before their arrival in Paris yesterday, Ivan had been expected to accompany Bisset to various stylish night clubs and restaurants in Hamburg, one of several locations at which Bisset's legitimate enterprises maintained offices. 

"Establish rapport," General Simanov had instructed. "Create an image, lay groundwork for a relationship. The French do not expect any level of sophistication from us. Surprise him."

Apparently his mission had been successful on all counts; although Ivan found Bisset's "sophistication" defined by a taste for pricey depravity. 

Ivan checked his watch. He could catch an Aeroflot flight and be gone from Paris in less than two hours time. This choice would put him in the air, on his way home when the new decade arrived.

 _New Year's Eve, and a new decade begins this night._

Ivan had few traditions, and fewer superstitions, but the casually expressed sentiment seemed portentous. Reaching a sudden decision, he unzipped the garment bag and lay his evening wear on the bed. Greeting the New Year in Paris would not be as good as greeting the New Year in Moscow with Natasha and her new baby, or in a drafty castle with Hero, Dulcinea and their daughters, but Paris had pleasures that Grand Fenwick and Moscow both lacked.

He showered and shaved, then dressed in the arctic white cotton dress shirt and tailored black suit. A twinge of old discomfort and stiffness radiated from scar tissue below his shoulder as he bent to fasten his ankle holster. Flexing and stretching the muscles of his right arm, Ivan stood and inspected his image in the room's full length mirror.

A lean, dark man looked back at him with critical assessment. Sun, wind, and Afghanistan's brutal landscape had altered his outward appearance, melting recent years worth of desk-bound pounds from his body. His skin was burnished dark as any tribesman's. Ivan ran a hand over the unfashionably short hair on his head, still dyed dark to hide his too-distinctive natural auburn color. The cut had been necessary for field maintenance; lice were epidemic in places he had lived during the last year.

Ivan pressed the edge of his left hand against the mass of scar tissue under his collarbone, massaging slightly. Everything considered, even Afghanistan was marginally preferable to spending the rest of his life at Centre drowning in paperwork and politics. Three years behind a desk, with daily physical therapy constantly reminding him of his unreadiness to be back in the field, had seemed unending. Three years of brief, increasingly important field assignments had proved to his superiors he had not lost his edge as an operative. A full year in Afghanistan finished honing his already solid sense of self-preservation, and destroyed any remaining interior pretense that he was, or would ever be, a Communist. First and foremost Ivan was a Russian who loved his family and his country. Political and religious systems, he decided, were lice that lived on the body of the world.

_My people are capable of great things. I hope my country can build the best road into the future._

Conversation with Victoria, in bed, in New York so many years ago surfaced with such clarity that for a moment the faint scent of oranges seemed to hang in the air. Ivan frowned at the fragment of unwelcome memory and turned away from the mirror. He had reached the point where weeks could pass without thinking of her, or wondering where she might be, what she might be doing.

Ivan gathered his overcoat and the new black, Australian felt wool hat he had purchased in a small import store near Bisset's offices. Bisset had commented it made him look like an American gangster, supporting Ivan's own pleased opinion of the accessory. He checked his pocket for cigarettes and matches. He would enjoy a leisurely meal, then spend a couple of hours at a small club that featured blues music. Then, perhaps, he would see what Adrien Bisset considered to be a "good" party. 

~ ~ ~

Clouds of exhaust billowed from a slow moving queue of limousines and taxis pausing to disgorge party goers, draping a discreet veil over the facade of an elegant three story mansion. Rented for an astronomical fee, Ivan knew from Bisset's dossier. Situated on the fringe of Paris, the miniature estate included several acres of wooded land enclosed by an electronic gate and ancient stone wall. Tonight the gate was open wide.

Ivan followed a boisterous group past a door attendant dressed like a Victorian butler.

"Coatroom is to your left," the attendant repeated in French, English and German. Ivan noted the line of his suit coat betrayed a bulky mass under one arm. It would not surprise him to find every waiter in the place was carrying. 

Ivan surrendered his overcoat and hat, then drifted with the newly arrived crowd toward the sound of music. 

Evening dress and glittering costumes seemed equally represented, a cosmopolitan group of people gathered under an ancient (and absent) aristocrat's roof, in a country that still produced aristocrats. The ballroom was a glittering hive of activity, with a band situated under a spinning mirror ball. Dancers, mostly young and uninhibited, gyrated like marionettes under the control of inebriated puppeteers.

The far end of the ballroom was less congested. Groups of seats clustered along walls near lace framed floor-to-ceiling windows facing winter subdued gardens. Ivan skirted the edge of the dance floor, headed toward the seats.

"Dance with me!" 

A woman's drunken laugh rose above the noise of the crowd. Ivan put out a hand to fend off the attempted acquisition of his person. With a polite smile and shake of his head, he spun the woman back into the mass of dancers and kept walking. He was in a mood to observe. To watch. 

A single chair under draping fronds of a tub of pampas grass caught his eye. Ivan's fingers automatically reached for his cigarettes as he settled back into the well-made chair. The scent of burning match paper tickled his nose as he took the first quick pulls of aromatic smoke. His first purchase upon arrival in Paris had been several packs of good American cigarettes.

Small luxuries assumed disproportionate significance after months of deprivation. Ivan knew this. Cold vodka, good cigarettes, fresh fruit, texture of a woman's skin against his lips . . .

Ivan deliberately changed focus of his thoughts from interior to exterior. Across the ballroom a gilt-heavy Louis XIV clock perched at the center of an elaborate mantlepiece, hands nearly lined up on the XII. Arriving just before the stroke of midnight hadn't been a conscious plan. Ivan had nearly stayed in the club to listen to another set, telling himself Bisset's party would continue at least until dawn.

But here he was.

Ivan inhaled, then held the cigarette away from his face. He studied the sleek shape, the glowing tip and wisp of smoke.

_May cause cancer._

In some parts of the world the convention of making decisions to change one's life on New Year's Eve was much in vogue. In Ivan's line of work there were places where smoking, or the distraction of wishing to smoke, was an increasing liability. The stony, sandy landscape he had recently traveled had been a bad place to carry the distinctive reek of tobacco smoke on clothing and belongings. Ivan had located and killed men in field because the snapping flare of a match, the scent of smoke on the air had acted as a beacon of betrayal.

_Addiction was always a liability._

Perhaps this was the right time to abandon an addiction: beginning of a new decade, back in the field full time after several years behind a desk. Time at Centre was not wasted; paperwork and the daily grind of politics would still be there if he lived long enough to become too old for fieldwork. If he wished to avoid a premature return to that existence there would be no margin for error, or reprieve from fuck ups Centre could attribute to bad personal choices.

Perhaps this would be his last cigarette. Ivan filled his lungs with smoke, exhaled slowly and stared through the momentary haze at the extravagant panorama of celebration. Above the teeming dance floor a mirror ball shot light like tracer bullets through smoky air.

 _Dix, nine, acht, seven . . ._ Count-down from the crowd picked up volume. Couples clung, laughed, yelled, kissed with champagne-fueled exuberance.

"Cherie! You need someone to kiss." 

Ivan's lap was suddenly the landing zone for a small brunette. American, by her accent. She wore a glittering cocktail dress no bigger than a fancy gift bag. She seemed very drunk, very young, and very determined to share a New Year's kiss with a total stranger. 

Ivan dropped his cigarette, instinctively keeping one hand free to find his gun as the other closed over the nape of the girl's neck. He accepted the kiss, controlling the amount of contact. Her lips pressed against his, but he gave her no chance to use her tongue.

"It is a new year," he said, smiling into her slightly unfocused eyes. "Now find another to kiss before my boyfriend sees us together."

"Naughty Frenchmen." She giggled, then left his lap as suddenly as she had arrived. Scents of dance-heated woman, alcohol and musky perfume lingered in the air, on his fingers. If he had returned her kiss in earnest, she probably could have been persuaded to return to his hotel room. But this was an after thought, one devoid of desire.

His cigarette had vanished from sight. Ivan stood, found the butt smoldering on the marble floor beneath his chair. A push of his toe brought the butt into reach. He dropped it into the pot of sand against the wall, fingers searching for another cigarette. On the dance floor the music and dancing resumed with orgiastic abandon.

_A new decade begins this night._

Reseated in the chair, match poised at the tip of his next last fag, Ivan's eyes went back to the clock across the ballroom. 

Three minutes after midnight, January 1, 1980.

 

Perhaps it was the color that caught his eye, although in a maelstrom of color it seemed unlikely that even the most shocking hue would command instant attention. Perhaps it was the empty space that seemed to exist around her as she walked with her companion, slowly, along the opposite side of the ballroom. Her halter dress was red: saturated, vivid red. Her hair was longer than he had ever seen her wear it, rinsed with henna to the color of a new American penny, gliding across white shoulders as she turned her head to flirt with eyes and mouth.

_Victoria: mouth painted to match her dress._

Ivan leaned back into his chair and crossed his legs. The deliberate act of inhaling and exhaling helped bring his heart rate back to nearly normal. The man with her activated an immediate visual identification: Jean Salton, known simply as "The Frenchman" in the international criminal community. Salton was an arms dealer whose reputation for dubious business practices and vice was legendary. 

Swift observation and analysis informed Ivan that more than Victoria's hair had changed. His knowledgeable eyes lingered over the lines of her body. Definition and tone in the muscles of her bare arms were result of weight training over time. Her legs, always superb, had more muscle along the calves. The fit of the halter dress left no doubt her gun would be in her handbag; but compared to other women's dresses the length was modest, falling to her knees. Amid a profusion of mini skirts the sight of knees peeking in and out of the bright fabric of her skirt brought a sexual response that acres of bare thighs, and an ingenue in his lap, had failed to provoke.

_I am always surprised by how much I want you._

Sexual partners had been regularly spaced encounters, rarely repeated more than once with any one partner in the last seven years. Ivan liked sex. He liked women, even women he wasn't interested in fucking. But there was an invisible line he never crossed between liking and . . . something more. 

Ivan did not analyze this reality. It was there. He avoided being reminded of why it existed. This was not, he told himself, so much denial as evidence of superior survival instincts.

 _If you see her in the field again, you have two choices: kill her, or remove yourself from her vicinity as swiftly as if you had an ABM rammed up your ass._ Uncle Vladimir's earnest, inflexible voice had delivered this instruction long before Ivan was allowed to go back into the field.

General Vladimir Simanov, a man whose romantic exploits were the stuff of treasured family legend, knew quite well that Ivan would ignore option one. When Ivan related the conversation to Natasha, she gave him a cynical look mixed with deep pity.

_Uncle Vlad is, as usual, half right and half wrong. If you see her again and you do not run away very far, very fast, you might as well put your gun in your mouth._

Through a haze of smoke Ivan dispassionately observed Salton run his hand over Victoria's bare back and lean in to say something close to her ear. She would know what Salton was, would be fully aware of body language that screamed she was with a stalking predator. Victoria was strong and beautiful and deadly. She needed no one to explain the obvious, or rush to her aid.

It was like being allowed a glimpse into the future. Ivan's mouth twitched into a wry smile as the pair disappeared through the ballroom's grand entrance. He had no doubt that tomorrow there would be a story in the Paris papers speculating over the death of a notorious French criminal.

Suddenly Ivan no longer wished to remain spectator on the crowd's edge. He extinguished his cigarette and made his way through the maze of inebriated partiers. Near the foyer's entrance he paused, scanning for a red dress. 

A group of couples passed. The women lingered, held the outer door wide as their men found a waiting taxi. Through the steam of car exhaust and frozen breath Ivan saw a copper bright head duck into a limousine.

The impulse to follow her was immediate, overwhelming, and insane. 

 

Ivan stepped into the freezing air, quickly selecting the nearest unoccupied taxi in a short queue. But as his fingers closed over the door handle he saw the limousine tail lights turn the wrong way, turn in a direction that led away from city streets and deeper onto the walled grounds of the estate.

The grounds. Ivan mentally reviewed the synopsis of locations owned and frequented by Bisset given to him in preparation for the mission. If memory reported accurately there would be a small guest cottage located fairly close behind the house.

The night air was clear, but cold. He would need his outer wear if he was going to lurk around the grounds. Ivan returned to the house, reclaimed his coat and hat. A more comprehensive description of the estate was regurgitating from memory as he left the cloak room, an overview including both observed and potential security positions. 

Outside, Ivan paused to light a cigarette, then walked past the queue of taxis. In spite of accumulating reasons to quit, smoking could also be used to explain otherwise devious behavior to watchers.

He stepped off nearly bare pavement and found shelter against the solid brick house. Last snow had been three nights previous, and he was not the only person to leave footprints between pavement and house. A pile of butts on the ground bore witness that he was not the only smoker to stand in the same place. So far he had seen no sign of exterior security personnel. This didn't much surprise him. Bisset was not in residence and party access was unrestricted. With the "butler" stationed in the entry area, and "waiters" moving freely throughout the house, problems caused by guests could be quickly spotted and handled. With unlimited access to the house there would be little reason to post men outside on a cold New Year's Eve.

Still, Ivan moved cautiously into the shadowed area away from the entrance lighting, following the exterior line of the house until he met and turned a corner. It was darker along the side of the house, away from the flood lights. Light still spilled from large mullioned windows, and alert security personnel could have easily spotted a wandering guest.

Working his way steadily toward the rear of the house, Ivan heard the faint sound of an automobile engine rumble to silence. He cut across the yard to a solid oak tree, then to another, using the wide trunks as cover.

There was no exterior lighting around the cottage. After a moment lights winked on behind a row of small shoulder-height windows inside the long, rambling structure. At some point in the estate's history the stables had been converted into living quarters, probably for servants. Now the space could be used as guest housing – or place of assignation. 

The limousine's silhouette stretched darkly nearby. As he waited, Ivan saw the driver's door open. A man emerged and, hunched against the cold, walked briskly toward the back of the main house. The chauffeur would be in search of warmth, food and drink while his employer dallied with a woman. 

All better goals than Ivan's own. 

Small windows were not conducive to easy surveillance. Ivan worked his way around the cottage quickly, evaluating, but keeping a distance. No light showed through the windows on the back side of the cottage, making this portion of the grounds the darkest Ivan had yet seen. The outline of a single door broke the symmetry of the line of windows, possibly leading to the kitchen. Exterior evaluation completed, he reversed his path back around the cottage. 

Without specialized equipment, peeping became more an art than a skill. A whiff of pungent smoke from recently fired wood drifted off the low slate roof as Ivan moved closer to his chosen window. There seemed to be no draperies on the windows, only quarter raised bamboo blinds. Pressing himself flat against the siding, Ivan moved with incremental slowness until he could see through the window with one eye.

A scene of simple, uncluttered luxury confirmed Ivan's speculations on interior layout. A long, sparsely furnished room ran the entire front length of the cottage. The smoke was coming from a free-standing Swedish fireplace around which a group of leather chairs clustered. Victoria perched on an ottoman near the fireplace, watching Salton pour drinks at a miniature backbar that looked as if it had been made from original stables wood. A gleam of firelight off sequins pinpointed her purse's position on the low coffee table next to the ottoman. Two oil lamps flickered on the backbar, giving the entire scene an antique glow, giving Victoria's hennaed hair a radiance that made Ivan's throat go dry.

It was time to hit the go button on the ABM. Time to run.

Her face gave nothing away in the subdued light. Ivan saw her lips move.

_. . . and I know nothing about you . . ._

Salton was tall, perhaps 6'5", and looked as if he had lean muscle under his evening wear. Not carrying, Ivan thought, then reconsidered. As the man walked to the fireplace holding two glasses the line of suit against his back seemed less tailored than the front. Ivan frowned, concentrating on the man's face as he handed Victoria a balloon glass containing some amber liquor.

 _I am an open book._ Salton watched her sip the liquor, swirled his own balloon to catch the light, inhaled the fragrance -- but did not drink. A small smile played across his mouth. His eyes removed the red dress, lingered on the skin just above her breasts.

Victoria took another sip, then placed the glass on the coffee table next to her purse.

Had she noticed Salton was not drinking the liquor? The muscles in Ivan's arms tensed involuntarily. He could pound on the window, then run. Such a diversion would allow Victoria to reach for her purse, use her gun. 

_All that champagne is catching up with me. Where is your bathroom?_

_In the loft. Up the stairs to the left. Just off the bedroom. Shall I meet you up there?_

She stood, a single graceful movement that strained the halter top against her breasts, and incorporated the unobtrusive collection of her purse. _Yes._

It had been a mistake to follow her. Ivan knew he was probably incapable of merely looking at her from a distance, merely observing what appeared to be a mission about to go very bad. A knot of pressure and desire roiled and pushed at him: he badly wanted to kill the Frenchman.

Victoria took two, three steps away from the fireplace, then wobbled slightly on her modest heels. Behind her, Salton reached to his back waistband and extracted a gun.

_Stop. I will shoot you in the back of the head if you do not drop your purse._

Victoria froze in place and stood very still for a long moment. Her fingers released the purse, letting it drop to the floor.

_Come back to the fire and finish your drink._

Moving slowly, an expression of concentration on her face, she returned to the ottoman. _What have you put in my drink?_

Salton smiled widely, motioning with the gun. _A very fine drug. You may even enjoy its effects. For some it acts -- briefly -- as an aphrodisiac. Euphoria is common, followed by unconsciousness. Now -- finish your drink._

 _Sex will be better without such a drug._

_Perhaps for you._ He motioned again with the gun, aiming it toward the center of her chest. _I wonder who sent you after me with the little gun in your little purse. MI6?_

It wasn't jealousy he felt, Ivan told himself. Victoria's statement had been calculated, emotionless. Was this how they were using her now, as a honey trap? Had she traveled so far down the path of tradecraft that her body was just another weapon? The idea brought more than the denied jealousy in its aftermath: distaste, anger, infinite sadness . . .

Ivan withdrew his eye and dropped into a crouch, moving swiftly along the cottage toward the front door. He tested the door knob gently. The mechanism moved freely, but the door did not budge under the steady pressure of his shoulder.

Locked. Bolted from the inside.

The diversion scenario again suggested itself. An attempt to kick in the door might wrench Salton's attention away from Victoria, but would quite probably fail to allow Ivan entrance to the cottage. The frame of the door looked exceptionally heavy and well made. It occurred to him that the limousine might be used to breach the door.

The idea steadied him, brought a moment of amusement. Such a noisy solution would only be a last resort. Ivan abandoned the front door and slipped around to the back. Salton had no immediate intention of killing Victoria. If the drug was the one Ivan suspected, he knew it acted quickly, but not instantaneously. 

It was too dark by the back door to clearly see the details of the lock. Ivan's fingers tested the knob, then found an ancient, non-functional keyhole. The modern lock above the older plate felt familiar. He withdrew two lock picks from along the seams under his suit's lapels. _A trick he had learned from her._ Kneeling and shutting his eyes, Ivan felt the sense of timeless concentration, of hyperacute awareness of environmental information take possession of his mind and body. He worked the picks into the lock. 

The need to work noiselessly slowed him far more than working blind. Although it probably took less than four minutes, it seemed as if hours passed before Ivan felt the contact, felt the movement, and a _snick_ of sound told him the lock had retracted.

Ivan replaced the picks into their seam pockets. He removed the gun from his ankle holster, then stood and listened to the quiet around him. Even the noise from the party did not escape the solid walls of the old mansion. When he turned the knob, the door opened with a silent glide. Warm, wood fire scented air pushed against his face as he stepped across the threshold.

The outline of a sink, cabinets and refrigerator confirmed his guess about location of the kitchen. A line of glowing light under the base of an interior door drew him across the room. Underfoot the slight creak from an ancient floorboard halted his progress. Ivan stopped moving, listening for some sound of acknowledgment that his presence that been detected. Seconds stretched into minutes; he had nearly decided to resume his progress when three unmistakeable sounds occurred almost simultaneously.

Wood crashing against wood, glass against glass, then two rapid explosive discharges from a firearm sent Ivan past the kitchen door, heedless of what noise the floorboards might be reporting. The front door was almost exactly aligned with the interior kitchen door. It took only a split second to visually confirm it was bolted as he had surmised. Ivan made a hard right hand turn toward the occupied end of the long front room, holding his gun ready.

Victoria lay on the couch with her eyes closed, one strap of her halter dress pulled down to reveal a bare breast. The arm that dangled limply over the edge of the couch still grasped a snub-nosed revolver. Salton was three feet away from the couch, crumpled awkwardly over an upturned coffee table. Even before he got close enough for a good view, Ivan knew Salton had a bullet hole in the center of his forehead, and one in his chest.

Someone, Ivan thought judiciously with a surge of internal amusement and relief, had been fatally guilty of overestimating a drug's effects, underestimating Victoria's threat level, and failing to secure his own weapon against groping fingers.

"Ivan?" Victoria's eyes fluttered open. They attempted to focus on him, creating a moment of obvious vertigo. Her voice was throaty and slurred. But there was only the smallest tremor in the hand aiming the gun at him.

"Victoria." Ivan slowly put his own gun into an overcoat pocket. As he watched, the tension in her arm relaxed and her eyes closed. 

"Tosser. Drugged me."

"You have dealt with the tosser." Impossible not to laugh at the labored scorn in her voice. "Rest easy."

The revolver dropped to the floor. Victoria's head rolled slightly to one side.

It was unlikely anyone at the main house had heard the gunshots. Ivan wiped down Salton's pistol then placed it next to the dead man. Victoria would have been careful what she touched, until the drug took effect. Her current position on the leather couch was unfortunate. He would have to move her before cleaning the area.

Her eyes remained closed as he tugged her halter back into place, hiding the tantalizingly familiar breast and half-erect nipple. Her body was heavier than he expected, solid and warm in his arms as he carried her to a braided rug near the front door.

"Need to get out." Victoria tried to sit up, but fell back. "Bugger."

"After I clean."

Ivan wiped the couch first, a painstaking exercise, moved Salton off the coffee table for an easier cleaning, and ended with the balloon glasses which he found unbroken on the floor nearby. Although it was obvious which glass was the Frenchman's by the puddle of liquid, Ivan took no chances. As he picked up the first glass there was movement by the front door. Victoria had pulled herself upright and was fumbling with the bolts.

" _Milaya moya._ Wait for me." Ivan wasn't sure whether his words registered. He wiped the glasses rapidly, taking extra care with the one that had been empty when it hit the floor. A surge of cold air sent the fire dancing. Apparently Victoria had succeeded in getting the door open. Ivan replaced the glasses on the floor; when he turned the front door was standing wide open and she was gone.

Ivan understood. Victoria was working purely on instinct, following protocol for this kind of situation. _Take the shot, leave the scene with all dispatch._ Her purse lay in his path to the door. He scooped it up and slipped the deceptively small, weighty accessory into his overcoat pocket. Her coat was draped on a coat tree next to the front door, beside the Frenchman's overcoat. As Ivan pulled it down from the brass hook, he heard the limousine's engine turn over.

The chauffeur had left keys in the ignition? This was a rare gift in his experience. Ivan had been prepared to start the automobile using alternative means. He hurried to finish the last item of cleaning. Inside bolts and handles on both sides of the door received a rapid polish, even as the limousine began to creep away from the house. 

In the general dark of the yard, with the driver's side door hanging open, the interior dome light clearly showed anyone who might be looking that a woman in a red dress was slumping over the steering wheel.

Four running steps were enough to catch the limousine, which slowed to an idle before Ivan reached through the open door and took control of the wheel.

"Let me drive." Ivan threw her coat onto the passenger's side floor, then had to break Victoria's grip on the wheel and push her sideways. He wedged himself into the driver's seat next to her unresponsive body, no small feat. Her legs and arms tangled with his, and she seemed to have somehow doubled her weight. When he finally managed to shut the door and put his foot on the gas pedal, Victoria stirred again, trying to push herself erect.

"Buggering pervy sod drugged me," she said quite clearly. "He won't be doing that again. 'm fully capable of driving."

"Of course you are. Keep your head down. I'm taking us out of here." His words seem to calm her. With an indistinct mutter her head fell back onto the seat. 

The skirt of the red halter dress had bunched up around her thighs, revealing lace-elastic tops of garter-free hosiery. Her beautiful skin, the resilience of flesh below the soft vee where her legs met . . . all Ivan had to do was reach out one hand and he could explore the difference in texture between lace and naked flesh, reacquaint himself with her body. Instead he tugged the skirt down until it covered her nearly to the knees. He felt like laughing, felt like pulling her into his arms and kissing her. Stubborn, single minded woman that she was; how he had missed her.

Ivan followed the circular car track back to the place it joined the main driveway. A taxi was pulling past. Ivan turned quickly behind it, staying close until they left the estate grounds. He waited until they exited onto the main street before switching on the limousine headlamps.

The limousine would need to be ditched. Victoria would need a safe house for the night, until she regained normal function. Of the two needs, the first was by far the simplest. There were parties going on all over the city, at restaurants, hotels and private residences. As he considered his options, Ivan drove automatically toward a more densely populated section of Paris. 

One old hotel in particular came to mind, a place he had recently dined with Bisset. It had a popular restaurant and underground parking. Ivan pulled up at a curb for a moment to retrieve Victoria's coat and spread it over her body, hiding the vivid dress. He checked his reflection in the mirror. The hat would never pass for a chauffeur's uniform, but would probably cause little mental comment. Ivan could picture the French nonchalant shrug. _Some rich man's bodyguard was driving. Who cared?_

As it turned out, the _Hotel Cristo_ was the perfect choice. The gate to the parking levels was open, and the attendant – although in his booth – was owlishly drunk.

 

Ivan chose a generic Citroen, and wedged the limousine into a nearby space. It took him under a minute to jimmy the car's door open and hotwire the ignition. 

The Citroen's passenger's seat provided a much smaller space than the limousine, but he was able to position Victoria on the seat without much trouble. He arranged her coat like a blanket, tucking the sleeves over her shoulders to hold it in place. Against the dark fabric Victoria's skin seemed unhealthily white. Ivan rested a finger over her pulse. Slow. Too slow. Salton had administered a large dose of the drug.

Ivan removed his hat and turned the overcoat collar up around his neck, a rudimentary precaution that seemed unnecessary given the attendant's obvious condition. As he backed the Citroen out of the parking space, Victoria slipped sideways, ending with her head against his shoulder. Automatically Ivan shifted from reverse to neutral and waited to see if she would rouse again. 

Looking down at her, Ivan found the bright red hair and white of her skin against the dark of his overcoat visually jarring, although her honey-colored eyebrows, small mole on cheek and lip, and fan of mascaraed lashes made by her closed eyes were achingly familiar. It was a poignant shock to understand that sometime during the last few years he had reconciled himself to never seeing her face this close again.

If her pulse was far too slow, his was far too swift. Ivan eased the Citroen along the narrow lanes of the parking garage, out past the attendant's booth. The man appeared to have fallen asleep; he would remember nothing when questions were raised about the limousine and Citroen.

The streets of Paris stretched in every direction around them. Two or three solutions to his problem had occurred and been discarded. One choice stood out; a German safe house that – last he knew – was seldom used. 

Ivan headed the Citroen north.

He'd learned of the bolt hole from a busty, blonde German agent who preferred to be taken from behind. Their liaison had been brief, a single night. He remembered her large, soft breasts, and the gymnastic enthusiasm with which she participated in coupling. _Trude._ That was her name. He hadn't seen mention of her presence in recent foreign personnel updates from Centre, and he had never considered seeking her out for a second encounter.

A scatter of wet splotches on the windshield was followed by a scatter of snowflakes. Ivan turned on the wipers, but they were almost unnecessary. The snow appeared to be only a brief interruption of the clear night.

"Almos' to the castle?" There was a soft, smudged slur on the consonants. Victoria's eyelids fluttered with the effort to keep them open. She wound a hand around his arm and rubbed her cheek against his coat. 

She thought they were in America, driving to Durant Castle. The relief Ivan felt was a very mixed emotion. It would be better if, when the drug wore off, any impression of his presence could be explained as dream memory.

Better for both of them.

"Go back to sleep. We will be there soon."

Victoria made a small, contented sound in her throat, then went still. How far from the coachhouse would she have gotten if she had been alone, Ivan wondered. How far would she have been able to drive the limousine without ending up in the bushes, or against a tree. Far enough to find somewhere to hide until she regained consciousness? It seemed unlikely, although Ivan would not have bet against her making it to safety on her own.

In fact, he thought, based on everything he knew about the beautiful woman whose dead weight now prevented him from reaching into his pocket and finding a cigarette, it was more probable than improbable.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Dingy rows of three story flats built against each other stretched for perhaps four city blocks. The large windows were mostly dark. If the inhabitants celebrated the New Year, they did so elsewhere, or in darkened bedrooms. Ivan managed to find a parking spot only a half block from the ground floor flat in which Trude had entertained him.

"They hardly ever use it." The German woman had shrugged, a mimicked Galic gesture, before she bent to retrieve the key. The action pulled her mini skirt tight over her ass and exposed muscular thighs and a pair of orange satin panties, a color Ivan had never seen in panties before that moment. "It looks too much like home. But it is private, and has everything we will need. I do not require luxury to enjoy a good screw."

Tonight the windows of the flat were dark, although that was no indication of vacancy. Ivan trudged through slush on the brick walk, carrying Victoria in his arms. He lowered her to a resting place in the courtyard, tucking a bit of coat under her cheek where it rested against the ground. A quick few seconds of questing with his fingers, and Ivan found the key still in the hiding place Trude had revealed, under a bit of faux brick at foot level next to the door. That was a much surer sign no one was inside.

Ivan unlocked the door, took his gun from his pocket and stepped into the flat. A slight odor of mildew hung in the cool air, another argument for continued disuse and, maybe, Trude's departure from Paris.

"I know most of the nests: Kraut, Ruskie, Limey, Yank and Frog . . ." Trude had winked at him, enjoying the slang and preparing the way for her next double entendre. "My people send me out to clean – not just the porcelain, my Russian friend."

The sex had been good enough. Trude hadn't seemed to notice, or care, that Ivan's contributions to conversation were polite and perfunctory. When she wasn't moaning or giving him direction on the best way to get her off, Trude kept up a monologue of personal thoughts and observations concerning the French, occasionally venturing into areas of tradecraft that would have greatly distressed her handler. 

Ivan let the German agent slip from his thoughts. The flat was tiny, a total of three rooms: combination living area and kitchen, bedroom and bathroom. Moving quietly through the dark rooms it took only a moment to ascertain the place was empty. The bedroom had a small table lamp on a squat dresser, but Ivan didn't reach for a light switch until he stood inside the bathroom with the door closed behind him.

Groping, he found the chain to a light fixture above a remembered rust-ringed sink. Diffuse light from a yellow bulb softened the basic contents of the room. A single faded towel hung on a bar. Ivan touched it. Long dry. He left the light on, pulling the door almost closed behind him, allowing the barest sliver of light to leak into the bedroom. 

Reassured his choice of haven was sound, Ivan hurried to collect Victoria from the freezing courtyard.

 

More muscle meant more weight. Ivan grunted acknowledgment of that increased weight as he hefted Victoria's body from ground level into his arms. His regime to counteract damage to the musculature of his right arm had been neglected while he was in the field. Maneuvering through the doorway into the flat, he made a resolution to resume exercising.

He carried Victoria to the bedroom, carefully settling her limp form on the thin mattress. She lay exactly as he positioned her, more unconscious than asleep; past the point where she would wake again until the drug ran its course. Ivan stood for a long moment staring at her unanimated features. He badly wanted to touch her face, her hair. Instead, he left the bedroom, secured the bolt on the front door, then twitched the curtain aside and stared out at the courtyard. Eventualities and probabilities chased each other as he considered his next actions. 

Salton's driver: he would be accustomed to waiting until summoned, probably in morning hours. Odds were high that he would not check on his employer until full morning – or noon, with any luck.

Victoria: given the evident strength of the drug's dosage, she would not recover mental acuity until sometime after the sun had risen. Possibly later. When she did wake, she would be quite capable of finding her own exit. 

The Citroen: would he need to leave Victoria, move the car to a location farther from the flat? 

Upon consideration, Ivan thought not. When the dead Frenchman was found, official response would be slowed due to the after-effects of celebration. He had chosen the Citroen for its invisibility; thousands of identical vehicles were scattered about the city. All factors considered, Ivan decided there was small risk in leaving the car adjacent to their bolt hole until morning.

Until morning. Ivan glanced at his watch: 1:45 a.m. That would give him four hours, approximately the same amount of time he had spent with Victoria their first time in Paris.

The urge for a cigarette was sudden and overwhelming.

The urge to touch her was even greater.

Ivan removed his hat and overcoat, retaining his gun and Victoria's purse. With eyes now accustomed to the lack of light in the flat, the glow coming from around the bathroom door seemed overly bright. Ivan closed the ill-fitting door, further reducing the indirect illumination to a single thread of glow along the threshold.

Even as his field sense made the observation that he should take a seat in the living area to wait out the next few hours, Ivan was judging line of sight between the head of the bed, through the doorway. He was deciding to exchange his suit coat for his overcoat. The looser outer coat would still cover the bright white of his dress shirt, and allow greater maneuverability than the tailored formal garment. He was deciding to move Victoria's unresisting body, settle himself, seated with his back against the wall; deciding to pull her onto his lap and hold her.

"I thought to see you at the wedding. I had thought to say farewell before we parted." Ivan's barely whispered words seemed overly loud, revealing the empty silence that filled the flat. Solid brick and old wood were good insulators. From his previous visit, Ivan knew there would be clanging along the pipes to the single radiator in the living area, occurring at roughly half hour intervals; harsh staccato reminder of the passage of time.

Victoria's forehead was warm and a little damp against his lips. There was more more he needed to say, more he had planned to say eight long years ago. But even though she seemed unconscious, he would not speak aloud again and risk leaving some nagging memory for her to pick at, and possibly recover. It was essential that Victoria – and General Simanov – never have their attention drawn to the details of his New Year's celebration. 

It would have to be enough to hold her.

There had been other sleeping women in the dark, although none like this, cradled protectively on his lap. Ivan had never mistaken any of them for her. The hip that rested against his hip, length of thigh and leg to knee, lower ribcage and dip of waist under his fingers . . . Ivan was unsure what set her apart from others. But even though she was unconscious and unmoving his body quickened with acknowledgment and recognition: _all and only Victoria._

Her hair was soft against his mouth and cheek. The scent was wrong, strong and musky. Either she had changed her preference for going unscented, or the perfume was part of her disguise. Ivan's right hand curled over her ribcage, left hand remaining free in case he needed to use his gun. 

Recuperating from the wreckage of his shoulder, Ivan had put in hours of practice to improve his ambidexterity with handguns. His ruthless, single-minded intention to erase any instinctual preference for handedness had paid off, as his speed and marksmanship went from excellent to superior with either hand. The thought had been constantly with him, if deliberately unexamined: should their paths ever cross again, Ivan was determined not to be deficient in this essential skill. Victoria might guess, but he would never confirm exactly what her bullets had cost him.

Ivan settled his shoulders and head against the wall behind the bed, his field of vision taking in the darkened front room and entry door. He felt absurdly comforted and comfortable holding Victoria's dead weight. Body heat gathered between them. It would have been easy to sleep.

 

**SNAPSHOT – MOSCOW: DECEMBER 31, 1978**

"Let me in quickly. It is snowing again, and colder than a Stalinist's heart and an apparatchik's ass."

Muddy slush and bitter wind entered with Natasha. "Will you ever learn? There are things about which you should not joke." Ivan shut and bolted the door behind her as she wedged off her boots. "Comrade Borodin next door is sharp of hearing and waits with one hand poised above his telephone."

"I think you never bring women here." Natasha smiled at the profusion of tatted lace she passed on the way to the tiny kitchen. Her arms were full with a bottle of vodka and wrapped parcels of waxed brown paper. A tantalizing odor followed in her wake, savory with onion, spice and meat. "I would gladly have some of Grandmother's handwork, if you wished to redecorate."

"Take what you would. There's enough handwork for every member of our family." No comment was necessary on Natasha's observation about bringing women to the flat where he'd been raised. Ivan had yet to find the woman he cared enough for to brave the ghost of Babushka Ludmilla's grim sense of morality. "The General still has you keeping an eye on me?"

"You know he does." Natasha set her offerings on the dark, scarred wood table that took up too much room in the kitchen. "And you know I am not the only one. But you are family; he likes you. The watchers are mostly practical men of good heart."

"Of course." Ivan's words said one thing, his intonation and facial expression another. The good-heartedness of watchers was deeply suspect. "Why have you come? We would have met at the family celebration in a few hours."

"I was tired of cooking, and needed a break from all the gossip. I told them I was bringing you a small gift of food, something to have ready for tomorrow, when you are hung over and despondent." Natasha stepped into an uncharacteristic hug. "You are being sent into the field," she whispered against his ear.

"Thank you." The fierce pleasure he felt was reflected in Natasha's knowing eyes. "Vodka?"

"Thank you. I spit on winter's cold." Natasha fiddled with the radio on the counter next to the sink. The stately sound of Rostropovich filled the room as she took a seat at the table. "Did you get a letter from Hero and Dulcinea?"

"With a picture of little Regina? Yes." Ivan poured them both a measure of vodka. "She has the eyes of an old woman. A cranky old woman. No four year old child should have such a face."

Natasha laughed and raised her glass. "To faraway friends and clever children."

"To faraway friends." He would not to drink too much tonight. Finally, finally it seemed as if the hours at Centre, his recuperation and penance for poor judgment, would be at an end. Natasha would not have come with this news without the General's instigation and approval.

"Another?" Ivan's movement to pour stalled as Natasha held her hand over the glass.

"I am getting married." Her voice dropped to just below conversational level. "No more field work for me, I will be with Centre full time."

He'd known her since they were children, knew her expressions, vocal intonations, body language. Ivan stared at Natasha's fingers resting on the glass, then at her face. "You are pregnant. Do I know your husband to be?"

"Maksim Titov. I will tell the family tonight."

Titov was on the General's staff, a big blonde athlete who would never be trusted with delivery of a complex message, let alone fieldwork. "Titov." Ivan looked at her and waited.

Natasha reached behind her and turned up the volume on the radio. "I considered never telling anyone – especially not you. But there is no one safer and better to trust with this truth. And if there is one thing I have learned while watching Uncle Vlad, it is to prepare for any eventuality, the sooner the better."

"The child is not Titov's."

"Ah. You are the best agent he has, Vanya. We will suit very well together, Maksim and I. He is a strong and patient man, mostly honest and content. And he will never be able to hide anything from me," she said sadly. "No, the child is not his."

Where had she been in the last few months? The General often used Natasha as an official courier, most frequently to France. Had she taken a French lover?

"It is worse than that." Natasha had followed his internal monologue easily. She tore a scrap of paper from one of the parcels on the table, fished in her coat pocket and pulled out a pencil. She wrote a single word, in English, uneven letters struggling across the paper's waxy surface. When she heard Ivan's quick intake of breath, she rolled the paper into a wad and popped it into her mouth.

"I . . ." He could find nothing suitable to say. "Really?"

"He found me 'quite by accident' in Paris. We had drinks, publicly, at one of the bars where embassy staffs mingle. He wanted to know how you had come out of the shooting. At first I thought that was all it was, a transparent ploy to get intel on you, or her."

 _Her. Victoria._ A fine tremor moved through Ivan's shoulders; geese or British spies undoubtedly walking over his grave. 

"It turned into more. It was brief, and very discreet." 

Until the job in Switzerland, Ivan had never heard of Jackson Lamb. During their raid on the Mousehole, Lamb had seemed a competent professional, if eccentric, and thoroughly British. Since working full time at Centre, Ivan had come to know that Lamb's exploits seemed calculated to raise the bar on Bond's more public adventures. In a world of dangerous men, Lamb was one of the more dangerous.

"Nata. Does he love you?" Ivan did not ask if she had lost her heart to an enemy agent, lost her sense of self-preservation and political perspective as she mimicked her cousin's bad choice in bed mates.

"Love? No. It was desire and appetite. His appetites will get him into trouble one day." Rosy color spread to Natasha's cheek bones and tip of her nose. "Mine already have. He is an interesting man, and I suspect he may be a better agent than Bond. But without a heart, a man cannot love."

It had been a narrow escape for her, Ivan realized with sympathetic relief. "Does he –?"

"No. You and I alone, although Uncle Vlad . . ." Natasha sighed. "If I ever said anything cruel to you about –"

Ivan took her chilly hands, kissed her fingers. "I am sorry you will no longer be doing fieldwork – but life is dangerous enough at home. Before you become a new wife, someone should tell you that when a man and a woman lie down together . . ."

Natasha yanked her fingers away and glared at him. "Some day you may sit across from a woman who finds it necessary to remind you there is no method of birth control that hits the 100 percent effective mark."

"Hopefully not." Ivan stood as she rose, very much on her dignity. "If you need me, you know –"

"I know, Vanya; I know."

 

**SNAPSHOT – PARIS: JANUARY 1, 1980**

Victoria mumbled something, twitching muscles in her arms and legs bringing Ivan back to full awareness.The sound of her voice and warm pressure of her body brought his cock to hopeful attention. Ivan shifted her minutely, checked his wrist watch. It was 4:40, perhaps an hour and a half before morning would displace the last of night. He would wait until 5:30, then leave the flat, take the Citroen back into the city.

Strange, all those months in the field, and he'd never thought about his conversation with Natasha, not even when word came his new second cousin was a tow-headed, blue-eyed boy. Now, with arms full of Victoria, Ivan found his family edging her aside and taking control of his thoughts. 

The urge to light a cigarette was suddenly even more distracting than his erection. The craving activated another family snapshot Ivan had filed without review, although this was due more to fog of drugs and pain at the time than it was to avoidance or denial. He transferred the gun from his hand to the overcoat pocket, exchanging one health hazard for another. There were two cigarettes left in the package.

Ivan placed one of the cigarettes between his lips and drew air through the unlit tobacco.

_I don't care if you are a General. You cannot smoke in here._

 

**SNAPSHOT – MOSCOW: APRIL1972**

"I don't care if you are a General. You cannot smoke in here." 

"Comrade Doctor Egorov. Your concern for my nephew's health is laudatory. Go away." General Vladimir Simanov dropped his cigarette and ground it out underfoot. "I require your absence."

Although Egorov was a difficult man to intimidate, he had not lived through political unrest both domestic and foreign without learning to recognize when reproaches to Generals should be attempted or avoided. "Your nephew is a strong young man who makes remarkable progress back toward health. But his lungs are delicate, and should not be further assaulted."

It wasn't often someone got the last word on General Simanov. Vlad waited until Egorov shut the door behind him before pulling the room's single chair close to Ivan's railed hospital bed. "If he were not the best doctor in Moscow . . . every day I visit and think you will look less like shit. So far I have been disappointed."

"Don't make me laugh. It hurts." Although not too much. Ivan perceived his body as a floating island. Pain was minimal; the drugs were good. "I enjoyed smelling smoke. It may be months before Egorov lets me touch a cigarette."

"Hmm. Yes." 

"Is it time for the verbal flaying? Or are you going to make me wait a bit longer, extend the psychological torture?" 

"Just because I cleaned your ass before you could talk, what makes you think I would willingly do so now?" Vlad frowned and drummed his fingers against his leg. "You fucked up. Don't fuck up again."

Ivan grimaced. "It sounds very – uncomplicated and simple when you say it like that."

"From the day we are born, in spite of surface appearance or casual analysis, there is no moment, thought, action that is uncomplicated and simple." Vlad waved his arms. "Simply by breathing we make tremors, ripples, disturb the wings of butterflies. Your actions will affect your life long after those wounds heal. But I need you, so take my simple advice to heart and you may avoid something more severe than a verbal flaying."

"Yes, General Simanov." His uncle's face blurred out of focus. Ivan blinked and tried to keep his eyes open. Of course nothing would be simple as he worked his way back. 

"I leave you with questions to consider – you will have much time for introspection before the time for action comes again." Vlad cast a critical eye over the tubes taped onto Ivan's arm. "What makes sex with a woman good or extraordinary? What makes sex with a woman grab your balls, crawl under your skin and hang on long after you've left her bed? To save you some time, I will tell you: no one has the answer to these questions. My first wife was such a woman. I miss her still. But life continued for me."

The wife in question had died in childbirth. Her passing left Vladimir with three young children and license to "sleep around," as the Americans said with such coy understatement. In spite of pharmaceutical intervention, Ivan realized Vlad was trying to tell him something.

"The danger is, I'm still alive. What does her dossier say about her marksmanship?"

"If Victoria Winslow had intended to kill you, you would be dead." Vlad huffed out a vast amount of air. "She has a Russian soul." 

"Yes." A vast unrolling of poetry, fiction, cinema and personal fantasy flopped around the spool of Ivan's mind, raising an alarming clacking that made him wince. "Is sex the only thing about living with Miya that you miss? Are you thinking of sex when, in the middle of the day, you find yourself wishing you could turn around and speak with her? Laugh with her?"

Vlad made a clucking sound with his tongue and shook his head. "Vanya: to you I say -- begin now, as you dream and heal; let her go. For your sake. For her sake. For my sake." Vlad's fingers closed around his arm, below the tubing. "You are family, and my best field agent. Heal, and let her go."

 

**SNAPSHOT – PARIS: JANUARY 1, 1980**

Ivan let Victoria down gently onto the bed, covered her with her coat. One of her hands moved, curled up between chin and chest. She sighed, then her breathing continued slow and regular. With eyes adjusted to night Ivan could clearly see the red of her hair and mouth develop depth and hue as morning lightened the space around them.

He knelt next to the bed, touched a finger to her bottom lip, then kissed her cheek without lingering. 

Eight years ago his plan had been to attend a wedding in Grand Fenwick, to spend one last week with Victoria and say a final farewell. It had taken him three years to admit to himself that being shot was a far more effective, and kinder, method of separation.

The steps he needed to take before leaving were automatic, ingrained habit. He took a piss, then wiped down any surface he had touched. Leaving the bedroom he paused, hat in hand. Her dress would be covered by the coat, but that hair . . . if her description had made it to general circulation, that hair would be easy to spot.

Ivan replaced his hat on the dresser, next to her purse.

Outside there was ice on the brickwork, but no snow remained. By the damp smell in the air, Ivan was sure that in another hour even the ice would be gone, leaving no possibility of random footprints surviving. There was no one on the street, no one to see him drive away in the Citroen.

When he got to the airport, he would place a call to Vlad, ascertain there was no pressing reason why he could not divert to Grand Fenwick for a few days before returning to Moscow. The need to hold baby Honoria while he told stories to Regina, to tease Dulcinea, to speak with Hero – to spend time with family was a sudden imperative.

From habit Ivan reached into his pocket, rejected the soggy, chewed cigarette and extracted the last cigarette in his pack. He pushed in the car lighter. When it popped out he lit the cigarette against the glowing coils, pulling smoke deep into his lungs and holding it for a second before breathing out. He did this one more time before rolling down the window and tossing the cigarette onto the passing street.

 

**SNAPSHOT – PARIS: JANUARY 1, 1980**

"My god, it's nearly noon. Have a bit of sleep in, Winslow? You do know every gendarme in the city is looking for you." Jackson Lamb lowered his day old copy of the Telegraph as she came through the door, presenting him the vision of a cartoon spy in long dark coat, face hidden beneath the broad brim of a man's fedora. "Nice titfer. Where did you find a speakeasy to rob in Paris?"

"I feel like death. Don't make me shoot you. Is Salton dead?" Victoria pulled off the hat and sailed it in Lamb's direction. "Only I seem to be missing a large portion of my evening. Tosser took me to a love shack and drugged me. I woke up far removed from my last known location . . . alone, with that hat."

"Which explains why you missed our 3 a.m. rendezvous." Lamb fingered the felt, inspected the label. "Quality bit of goods. New. Yes, Winslow, he's thoroughly dead, and the limo's gone missing. It was that fact that hastened discovery of the deceased Frenchman. Jean Claude rang up to tell me Salton's driver is babbling to the authorities about _une salope_ with crimson hair. What did Salton slip you?" He took the opportunity to use the patented Lamb leer.

Victoria put her hands on her temples and concentrated. "Salton made me, somehow. They need to look into that; will the damnable leaks never end? Extrapolating from what Salton said while aiming a gun at me – drugging victims for sex was not an unusual way for him to end a date night." 

She certainly looked like she'd had a bit of rough. With the removal of the hat her flaming hair fell in lumps and clumps, drawing the eye like a neon sign. Her skin was white as unpainted Japanese porcelain, and most of her eye makeup had been removed, giving her a totally misleading look of vulnerability. It struck Lamb that if someone had left her the hat, he had known she would need camo when she staggered home. "GHB then? And yet you managed to shoot him and scarper with the limo. Nicely managed. Bond once told me you drove over 100 miles of bad road in Columbia with enough Pentathol in you to choke a horse."

"I remember every minute of that," Victoria said, obviously uneasy. "Memories from last night include a tour of eight parties ending at a converted carriage house behind one of Bisset's places, being forced to drink bad cognac, finding Salton on top of me going in for a grope, and liberating and putting his gun to good use. I may remember finding the keys in the limousine. Next thing I know it's daylight, and I'm waking up because there's an invisible elephant standing on my bladder."

"When one wakes up in an unknown bed after being drugged insensible, the possibility of rape does come to mind. Did person unknown take you home from the party and finish what Salton began?"

"You speaking from personal experience?" Victoria rolled her eyes. "I did check. No one interfered with the unconscious assassin. I think the flat is someone's safe house, it was very basic. I have no memory of how I got there. The limo was nowhere in the vicinity when I exited. You'll have the address checked out?"

"Later. A man and his boat are waiting on us. Do something about that hair, Winslow. Your kit's still in the bedroom, but the cosmetic supplies are waiting in the bathroom. I'll make you a cuppa while you're in the loo." 

"I thought we were flying out." A strained expression crossed her face.

"And so we were, until you slept through our window of safety. Now we're joining an old family friend for a yachting adventure." Lamb settled the hat on his head, tilted the brim. "A good fit. Whoever owned it has a head as large as my own."

"No one has a head as large as yours, Lamb." She disappeared toward the bathroom, shedding clothing as she went. After a moment the sound of running water nearly covered the sound of retching. 

Symptoms were consistent. She'd been given a bastard big dose of the stuff, and the missing time was going to make her debriefing full of long silences and heavy sighs from Them Upstairs. His best and wisest course was to wade right in, solve the mystery of apres-shooting, assemble all the pieces Winslow was missing and give them back to her . . . not only because it was his job as her handler on this outing, but because there were few things in his life that brought him more personal satisfaction than observing and analyzing Victoria Winslow. 

Lamb removed the hat and fingered around the inner band, turning the brim nearly inside out. " 'allo, 'allo." He moistened his finger with the tip of his tongue, then delicately removed a single short, dark hair from the felt. Black-ish. He walked to the nearest light fixture and examined the hair in brighter light. 

"Fuck me."

For the merest instant Lamb wondered if it was all an act, because his mind worked that way and he had to consider every angle. But no – his gut said Winslow's drug-induced memory lapse was no act. He wiped the hair off absently on his shirt sleeve, then wandered into the kitchenette and put the kettle on to boil.

"Fuck me sideways." 

Cold mid-morning light struggled through a filthy skylight. Looking up at the dreary sight, Lamb lit a cigarette and contemplated the leap his mind had just made. What had initially seemed a three-pipe problem was abruptly reduced to a single fag – and possibly a quarter bottle of vodka – problem. He'd wait until they got to London, make a few official calls, make a few unofficial calls. Muddy the water. He had read Salton's dossier; there was mention of straight up rape, but not of rape by stealth. And if Winslow was right and there had been a leak about her identity and objective . . .

Lamb ground out his cigarette and lit another just as the kettle began a lisping whistle. He had no doubts about the ethics and morals of Them Upstairs. During the time he had known her, Winslow had been a frequent victim of the twisted Assessment Review dodge. Them Upstairs probably had no need to know the whole story of how Winslow had gotten from Point A to Point B after taking her target. 

Especially if Simanov was back in the field.

"I look like fucking Cleopatra." Victoria entered, toweling a brown-black mass of hair. "I'm cutting it off when I get home. Is that my tea?"

"Drink it fast. Sit down, I'll plait. We don't have time for you to primp. And before you harm yourself trying to come up with a bit o' snark, I used to help mater do my five sisters." 

"Sisters my sainted aunt Fanny. I heard you was doing hair and warpaint for cabaret before they gave you a gun."

"Nice try." Her hair was easy to braid, not too thick. The last time he'd handled sable-color hair, it had been thicker, longer.

"Boring New Year's Eve for you, then." Her back was ramrod straight, her voice casual.

Lamb was not deceived. The woman had a rare talent for decisive physical action, but she could take amazing scenic mental detours before arriving at a destination when not under pressure. "Start of a new decade should be sober, thoughtful affair. Time to examine one's worth, make resolutions for improvement." 

"Drank all the champagne yesterday morning and had no chance to restock?"

"Are you going to spend the entire crossing vomiting?" 

A shiver went through her. When she spoke there was an undertone of resigned humor in her voice. "They won't be happy that I can't remember everything. Let's say I spin it out as far as appropriation of limo and admit there's nothing after. And once again I'm stuck on the firing range for a year. Or worse." 

"Worse?" Lamb stopped plaiting and waited.

"They'll tell me to get tarted up again, pat my arse and enter the name of a corrupt general or diplomat on my dance card. This kind of close mission: I can do it – I certainly think I've proved myself. But it's not what I do best."

"But it's what they want to use you for." He'd seen this conflict looming on the horizon. "Most things that need doing in our work are close. You're still first up when they need someone for a picnic on a hill with the SASR of your choice. What bothers you about the close? I suspect there were a fair number of women waking this morning in beds they had never seen before, with no memory of how they got there, so it can't be that alone."

"No – although any time you lose information is bad. I think it's because I lose myself. When I'm on the hill, taking the shot, I know exactly who I am, and what I'm doing. Do you remember what you told me in Switzerland?" 

"Winslow –"

"You said – _get out of Six. Make cookies._ You said I didn't have what it took to be a joe."

"Listen carefully, because I am about to say something I _never_ say: I was wrong. Are you nearly through wallowing?" His fingers resumed weaving damp hair.

"Have you thought about tossing it in, doing something different with your life? We could buy a place in London, operate a combination bistro and patisserie. You could make _lou pastis en pott,_ and _coc au vin_. I could make _croissant amande_ and _chocolat au pain_ every morning."

"Wicked, wicked girl. How did I ever allow you to get to know me so fucking well." Lamb swallowed the extra saliva that his mouth was producing and tugged hard on the end of one braid. "It would never work. In six months I would weigh 500 pounds, having eaten all our product."

"It's a brand new decade, Lamb. I'm going to be 32 this year. There's a decade of fighting behind me, and most of that with my managers. It seems a good time to ask myself what my life will look like at 40."

"You'd be terrible at management," Lamb admitted. "I won't lie."

"Which is why I'm having this conversation with you. If I can't tempt you into leaving the firm, I suppose I'll have to keep fighting. Close, far, wherever they decide to use me."

People in fieldwork were either heading up or down the food chain, Lamb had observed. Rate of ascension or decline varied; some reached a precarious plateau where a perch could be maintained for a time. Management principles were somewhat different. The plateau came earlier in life, and often turned into a professional assisted living community – unless you were one of the few who found a seat on Mt. Olympus. Neither of them, Lamb was cynically sure, would have the chance or desire to reach those heights.

"Ask me again when you're 40, and your tits have fallen six inches lower. But you won't. By then they'll have fresh meat for their honey traps, and distance is the only kind of op that will come your way."

"Bastard." Victoria slumped slightly. "You will do the follow up before they put someone else on it?"

There was honest affection in her voice. It woke a sadness in Lamb that he acknowledged with a sense of resignation. "Yes. You have bobby pins in your kit?" Lamb finished weaving in the ends of the plaits. "Pin them up, put on that ugly blue suit, and you'll look a proper little Fraulein. Don't worry about clean up, local boys and girls will take care of everything. Ten minutes and I'm leaving, Winslow."

"I'll be with you."

And she would be, Lamb knew. 

_Croissant amande_ , indeed. Her skill with pastry was probably why he put himself out for her on occasion. If not that, why? 

Sex wasn't the motivator, although he appreciated that aspect of her. It wasn't familial, or any other easily identifiable signifier that had insinuated this woman into a category of one in his isolated existence. It might be because she always made him laugh, Lamb mused as he pulled on his overcoat and new hat – a truly rare talent given his sense of humor. It might be that her exterior gave no hint of the depth and breadth of her interior – a condition whose symptoms and prognosis he understood all too well. 

Victoria Winslow had been so bright and shiny and clean the first time he'd met her at one of those god awful exfiltration-slash-survival seminars – a responsibility fobbed off on him as enforced penance or public service or some such piss. With cleanliness much reduced, and the bright and shiny somehow intact, Winslow had not only been the only one of his five students to finish the course, but had the balls to tell him – _no, she would not eat a frog unless he somehow managed to cook it first, and if that meant wedging it between the crack of his ass and poaching the little fucker during the next five-mile trek through the bog, so be it._

The memory still made him smile. 

Lamb had decided early in his career that friends were a bad idea, family was worse, and lovers were Russian roulette with six bullets instead of one . . . a prophetically bad metaphor, as it turned out. 

His atypical decision to enable a possibility of survival for Winslow's Russian lover had triggered a cascade of dominoes that would probably continue beyond his own – hopefully far future – death. It was too bad that what would probably turn out to be the master stroke of his career would never be fully appreciated by Winslow, Simanov, Them Upstairs, or even Moscow Centre.

It had been in Winslow's face and eyes, that hot March day, the air smelling of tar and concrete. Lamb had watched her pick up the Russian rifle, hesitate, then reject a desire to kill _him_ and instead accept the order to kill Simanov. Except – and here was the brilliant thing about Winslow – she had understood the opportunity Lamb had given her to square the circle. Three bullets from a misfiring rifle, grouped with such skill that life had an equal chance with death.

No, as good as she was, if she'd seen Simanov last night, Lamb would have found that knowledge in her face. Which meant . . .

"Well? What are you waiting for?" In addition to the dark coronet of plaits, unflattering navy pantsuit and boxy gray wool coat, Victoria had added a pair of blue-tinted wire rim glasses. The transformation from dissipated vamp to secretarial pool was complete, down to a subservient hunch of shoulders.

Lamb opened the door, took a quick recce down the hall. An eye-watering scent of boiled cabbage was the hallway's only inhabitant. "Was it snowing when you came in?"

"No. Cold and dampish. That hat suits you. Makes you look like a young George Sanders. " Victoria pushed past him, taking the lead down the five flights of stairs to the ground.

Following in her wake, Lamb recalled that Sanders had been born in Russia. Fucking Russians. He would have to keep a closer eye on that part of the world, even though he was increasingly being pulled toward home.

On the third-floor landing Lamb paused to light a cigarette as Victoria's dark braids inexorably continued down the stairs. For a brief moment he let himself wonder if Girlchik would join her cousin again in the field. A brief, instantly regretted moment. Winslow's incipient ennui had struck a resonating vibe he resolved to banish. The thought hooked a George Smiley moment and reeled it past the resolution, flashing significance like an air-suffocated salmon.

_I'm going to put an end to some emotional attachments which have long outlived their purpose._

A tickle deep in his lungs grew into a cough as Lamb caught up with Victoria at ground level. The wind was picking up. The crossing would be rough.

**Author's Note:**

> Lamb's quote pulled from Le Carre's _Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy_
> 
> Jackson Lamb appears in Mick Herron's novel: _Slow Horses_ , soon to be followed by _Dead Lions_. Buy! Read!


End file.
